


Manual Labor

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Given a little downtime, Desdemona takes a moment to relax and look back on some fond memories. Originally posted <a href="http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/7011.html?thread=19063395#t19063395">here</a> on the Fallout Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manual Labor

As Railroad Alpha, Desdemona had abused her power only once. When they resettled in the catacombs of Old North Church, she’d laid claim the only private bedroom. It was a small, dark space, scarcely wider than her cot, but it had a door, and the door locked. Everyone else slept on shared mattresses in the common areas, virtually hot bunking as agents and runners came in and went out and collapsed in exhaustion.

It had been another long day, poring over maps and field reports and sifting through data to search for patterns. Forecasting was PAM’s specialty, but even she wasn’t omniscient. Human eyes and human minds could tease out oblique connections and lateral relationships that PAM’s procedural, if-then mind couldn’t conceive of.

Desdemona locked her door and leaned against it, sighing. She unspooled her scarf from around her neck, folded it carefully, and draped it neatly over the foot of the bed to keep the trailing ends off the floor. She kicked her boots off and undid her belt buckle, shucking off her clothing and letting it fall to the floor in a heap.

She stripped down into her underwear and flopped onto the narrow bed. The bedframe squeaked in protest, mattress springs squealing as she rolled over, making herself comfortable. It was well past midnight, but she was too keyed up to relax, her head pounding with numbers and vectors, supply lines and safehouses. When she closed her eyes, she saw spreadsheets. Desdemona had been born a freedom fighter, she would die an accountant.

Sighing, she rolled over and lit the lantern on her bedside table. A warm kerosene flame flickered into life inside a blown-glass globe, filling the room with soft golden light. She had a stack of books by her bedside table, hip-deep, that she’d been meaning to read for ages. Deacon kept bringing books back for her, like a cat leaving dead birds on her pillow. He favored thrift editions of the classics: dense, gothic novels and early American poetry, their covers and spines patched with wonderglue and celluloid tape.

Desdemona cracked the spine on a battered copy of _Leaves of Grass_. Frowning, she squinted down at the microscopic type, the letters swimming in front of her eyes. Carrington had railed against eyestrain, had warned her that she’d be blind by sixty if she didn’t wear her glasses. She had given his advice due consideration and chosen to ignore him. It figured that it’d bite her in the ass eventually.

She set the book aside, sighing. There were more interesting ways to go blind.

One hand drifted down to cup her breast through her undershirt; the other found the dial on the small, portable radio she kept by her bed. She passed through dead air and static, and eventually found Diamond City Radio.

The DJ introduced Magnolia, _la chanteuse de Goodneighbor_. A moment of fumbling, and Travis dropped the record; the music started in low and sweet and swept his clumsy words away on a tide of brass and jazz brushes. Magnolia’s voice cut in, smooth and smoky as wildfire, and Desdemona let her eyes drift shut. _I can work with this,_ she thought, reaching for the vibrator she kept in her bedside table table drawer. _I can_ definitely _work with this._

Magnolia was one of theirs: designation C2-41, formerly of the Institute, currently of Goodneighbor. She had escaped some years prior and declined the mind wipe. Two hours out of facial reconstruction, still woozy from the painkillers, her head swathed in white gauze. “I want to help,” she said, mule stubborn. “I know what I’m risking. Let me stay nearby, and let me _help_.”

They set her up in Goodneighbor and she modeled her new persona off the femme fatales in old-world noir flicks. She had a voice like thunder and she looked good in red; Magnolia was an overnight success. The Institute never considered that their missing synth might be hiding onstage. And even if they had, the drunks and drifters would have martyred themselves to save their songbird. There were no saints or madonnas in Goodneighbor; the people prayed to Magnolia.

Desdemona had met her only twice. When Magnolia escaped, Desdemona had still been a raw recruit. It had been before Old North Church, before Slocum’s Joe. She’d been twenty-three, green as grass and ready to fight. C2-41 had seemed impossibly elegant, even dressed in a drab Institute-issued jumper and splattered with someone else’s blood. Desdemona had said something stupid and been dismissed, her face burning. The second time had been more recently, over drinks during one of Desdemona’s rare forays into the world above. They had danced, they had kissed--Desdemona drew on those memories as she thumbed the vibrator on and slid it up her inner thigh, chasing away the day’s tension.

Eyes shut, music drifting over her like smoke--Desdemona pushed her underpants aside and ran the vibrator over her labia, teasing her flushed lips. She spread herself and touched the vibrator to her clit, rocking her hips forward. She imagined Magnolia kneeling between her spread legs, smiling and running perfectly-manicured hands up Desdemona’s thighs.

_“So tense,” she teased, pushing Desdemona’s dress--borrowed from Deacon for the occassion--up her legs. Eyes locked on Desdemona’s, Magnolia leaned forward, nudging the skirt up, exposing Desdemona’s flushed skin. Her hands stopped on Desdemona’s hips and she licked along her vulva, grey eyes boring into Desdemona’s. “And so wet.”_

Desdemona whimpered, shoulders and spine curling inwards as she held the buzzing vibrator against her clitoris. She groped herself, fingers rough on her tits, breasts spilling out of her undershirt. She squeezed her small, pert breast and dragged the vibrator in rough circles around her clit, denying herself direct stimulation. She chewed her bottom lip and swallowed another moan, eyes screwed shut while Magnolia’s voice poured out of the radio like honey.

_Magnolia had a sweet mouth. She lapped at Desdemona’s pussy, long slow licks alternated with quick flickers of her tongue across her clit. She kept up a steady, even pace, smearing Desdemona’s juices across her thighs_

“Oh _God_.” Desdemona was wound tight, lightning dancing over her skin, hurtling towards orgasm. She relented and held the vibrator directly against her clitoris, bringing herself to a quick, messy orgasm. She came with a choked cry, her spine spine and toes curling. She clutched at herself and at the sheets, hip rocking as her cunt shivered and contracted around the vibrator. She threw her head back and moaned out loud, drowning out the radio and the buzzing toy with her cries. 

Desdemona let her head fall forward and thumbed the vibrator off and set it on the side table. Utterly relaxed, she wiped her sticky hands on her undershirt and settled back into the lumpy mattress, utterly relaxed. She sighed, contented, and dropped into the most restful sleep she’d had in months. 


End file.
